The Lout
By John Clare
For Sunday's play he never makes excuse, But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice. Hard as his toil, and ever slow to speak, Yet he gives maidens many a burning cheek; For none can pass him but his witless grace Of bawdry brings the blushes in her face. As vulgar as the dirt he treads upon He calls his cows or drives his horses on; He knows the lamest cow and strokes her side And often tries to mount her back and ride, And takes her tail at night in idle play, And makes her drag him homeward all the way. He knows of nothing but the football match, And where hens lay, and when the duck will hatch.
AI analysis available. Enable JavaScript to interact.
About this line
"For Sunday's play he never makes excuse,..."
Exploring the themes of classic, John Clare delivers a powerful performance in "The Lout"... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...